New Year
Happy New Year.
I forgot to ask for this night off, which at Papa John's means "I'd love to work New Years Eve," and in some cases, "I'd love to close on New Years Eve."
And so when I was given the closing shift at Papa John's, I might have initially resisted, but the prospect of inebriated generosity was too enticing for me to gripe or swap the shift. No one would have taken it, anyway. And so tonight, I worked a shift that spanned two years.
You don't realize this until you're a pizza guy, but people only really think about you from the time you enter their property to the time they have their pizza in their hands. You can pretty much do whatever you want once they're holding the pizza boxes. I have played with and run over dogs, taken naps, stolen cable, and helped myself to the fridge on separate and multiple occasions. There are only two cases in which people know you exist outside of the Enter-premises-to-pizza-handoff window: When you drive like a maniac, and when you screw up. So, say oven-guy forgot a cup of garlic sauce, or someone put regular sausage on the pizza instead of italian sausage. These are, in the mind of pizza consumer, pizza guy's fault, and he should pay dearly. So, pizza guy comes back to pizza consumer's house, uses more gas, and gets no tip. But of course, the double-tip shouldn't be expected (or accepted) when a mistake is made. This is probably in the Pizza Guy Tao if there is one. But I digress.
New Year's Eve is no exception for the lack of consideration for pizza guy, save for when he arrives at your house and you're happily intoxicated to the point of unnecessary sympathy and pity. (I was glad to be a recipient of $10.42 worth of pity from one such customer tonight.) It is perfectly acceptable for you to call and talk to pizza guy one minute before midnight (closing time, or ball-drop/toast/auld lang syne-time tonight) and order your pizza. Or, it is perfectly acceptable to invite pizza guy to your home and belabor him with questions about what it would be like for your son to work there, and how much would he make, and are the co-workers nice, all while Dick Clark slurs the countdown on television.
This is how I rang in the New Year: I was standing in a Grandville family's home, the Mom was putting her driver's license on the check while I watched her teenage kids dive into the pizza, and the countdown blared from the television in the other room. After I heard the last few numbers and then some added enthusiasm from the crowd, I said, "Uh, Happy New Year," and the kids looked up, mouths full of pizza, oblivious that another epoch of history was beginning.
(But really, it's not another epoch. It's just another night, assigned slightly more significance by the Romans a really long time ago. I'm almost always underwhelmed by New Year's Eve parties - hence my willingness to work New Year's - just as I am by birthdays. They mean less when you don't get a cake with a giant candle-number and a roller skating party. And a big wheel.)
Anyway, Mom came back with the check and gave me five bucks. I wanted to leave, but she kept drilling me with questions about whether or not her son would like working for Papa John's. I zoned out, and told her "Happy New Year," then I went back to my car and listened to The Roots while I drove back to the store.
I brought in Sparkly Apple Cider, and Deric, Tiffany, and I toasted the New Year on Central Time. I gave a speech.
Happy New Year, from the guy who takes your orders, makes your pizzas, and brings them to your doorstep. He reeks of gentility and pizza sauce.
One Love.
I forgot to ask for this night off, which at Papa John's means "I'd love to work New Years Eve," and in some cases, "I'd love to close on New Years Eve."
And so when I was given the closing shift at Papa John's, I might have initially resisted, but the prospect of inebriated generosity was too enticing for me to gripe or swap the shift. No one would have taken it, anyway. And so tonight, I worked a shift that spanned two years.
You don't realize this until you're a pizza guy, but people only really think about you from the time you enter their property to the time they have their pizza in their hands. You can pretty much do whatever you want once they're holding the pizza boxes. I have played with and run over dogs, taken naps, stolen cable, and helped myself to the fridge on separate and multiple occasions. There are only two cases in which people know you exist outside of the Enter-premises-to-pizza-handoff window: When you drive like a maniac, and when you screw up. So, say oven-guy forgot a cup of garlic sauce, or someone put regular sausage on the pizza instead of italian sausage. These are, in the mind of pizza consumer, pizza guy's fault, and he should pay dearly. So, pizza guy comes back to pizza consumer's house, uses more gas, and gets no tip. But of course, the double-tip shouldn't be expected (or accepted) when a mistake is made. This is probably in the Pizza Guy Tao if there is one. But I digress.
New Year's Eve is no exception for the lack of consideration for pizza guy, save for when he arrives at your house and you're happily intoxicated to the point of unnecessary sympathy and pity. (I was glad to be a recipient of $10.42 worth of pity from one such customer tonight.) It is perfectly acceptable for you to call and talk to pizza guy one minute before midnight (closing time, or ball-drop/toast/auld lang syne-time tonight) and order your pizza. Or, it is perfectly acceptable to invite pizza guy to your home and belabor him with questions about what it would be like for your son to work there, and how much would he make, and are the co-workers nice, all while Dick Clark slurs the countdown on television.
This is how I rang in the New Year: I was standing in a Grandville family's home, the Mom was putting her driver's license on the check while I watched her teenage kids dive into the pizza, and the countdown blared from the television in the other room. After I heard the last few numbers and then some added enthusiasm from the crowd, I said, "Uh, Happy New Year," and the kids looked up, mouths full of pizza, oblivious that another epoch of history was beginning.
(But really, it's not another epoch. It's just another night, assigned slightly more significance by the Romans a really long time ago. I'm almost always underwhelmed by New Year's Eve parties - hence my willingness to work New Year's - just as I am by birthdays. They mean less when you don't get a cake with a giant candle-number and a roller skating party. And a big wheel.)
Anyway, Mom came back with the check and gave me five bucks. I wanted to leave, but she kept drilling me with questions about whether or not her son would like working for Papa John's. I zoned out, and told her "Happy New Year," then I went back to my car and listened to The Roots while I drove back to the store.
I brought in Sparkly Apple Cider, and Deric, Tiffany, and I toasted the New Year on Central Time. I gave a speech.
Happy New Year, from the guy who takes your orders, makes your pizzas, and brings them to your doorstep. He reeks of gentility and pizza sauce.
One Love.
posted by gamble at 12:18 AM
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